A ClockWork Turd
by Penelope Loc
Summary: Based on Anthony Burgess's "A ClockWork Orange", this story is about an animated poo with wings. Contains Naruto, South Park and Death Note references. Rated T for crude humor and dark themes. P.S. For those who are only interested on the Naruto, South Park and Death Note references, it's on part 2, 8 and a little bit on parts 5 and 6, though I still recommend you read everything.
1. Introduction

** A Clockwork Turd **

The Story of a Nadsat Turdyfly

By, Bubbling Monoxide

**Warning, the following contains a lot of juvenile humor, references to controversial media and/or incidents, and butthurt. Not appropriate for prude, sensitive pricks.**

**Epilogue**:If you want to understand this parody, read Anthony Burgess's 'A Clockwork Orange.' That book is basically about this sociopathic teenage boy who goes around beating up people, until he murders this cat-lady and gets into a lot of karma. Alex is not your average teenage boy. In fact, if he were to live in this society, he would probably be shipped off to Guantanamo bay for acts of terrorism, or be analyze as a test subject for discovering new mental illnesses. Seriously, who goes around, wearing tight pants, then some stupid-looking crotch protector that illuminates some design, and then goes around beating up people for no particular reason, makes enemies with everyone, and in the process, gets high on milk, destroys one of the last book of its kind of earth, kills a murderous author's wife, beats some drunkards, rapes some girls, kills a cat lady,goes to prison and kills a pervert, then becomes mentally crippled and gets beat up by everybody, then to finally attempt suicide and to do all the same things again?! You're suppose to wear some tight tube tops and a stupid looking crotch-protector…

Anyway, that very same book also inspired this one. It would also have not been possible, without this crazy devotchka named Penelope. If it weren't for her, a hermaphrodite, two twins that looked like strangers, some fairy-like thing, a half-plant boy, a really ugly boy that drinks beer, a kung-fuey bartender, some girly looking boy, some boyish looking-girl, a sorceress, a schoolgirl with a weird flower on her head, a guy whose face could never be drawn, morbidly obese pandas, a cross-dressing merman,a talking radio, various other characters, and most of all, Turdyflies, and the city of Floroc would've never been invented-all on paper.

With all the boring introductions aside, enjoy the ride.

Notes-

Bog=god

Chelloveck=person

Deng=money

Devotchka=woman

Droog=buddy

Glazzies=eyes

Malchick=boy

Nadsat=teenager(russian suffix)

Pee and em=dad and mom

Veck=man

Rot=mouth


	2. Part 1: The Cruddy Begining

Part I: The Cruddy Beginning

'Одоо юу болох, аа?'

My brothers, that were my droog, Mud speaking to Your Poopy Narrator. The Turdyflies were Timurid descendants who were forced to reincarnate into crawling/flying excrement. Obviously, if I were to put it into our language, almost no one, let alone the teacher (for grading purposes) would ever read this.

Changing subject, we are in the Compost Bar, eating popcorn-plus. That is, popcorn laced with real cow's milk butter. It makes you fat and vicious enough to release methane, polluting the atmosphere. As nadsats, we were dressed in the latest fashion, even though we were bound to look really lame two years later; tight tube tops, due to the fact we don't have legs, and a stupid-looking crotch protector that happens to block whatever passage we had in releasing gas, making us potentially twice as deadly.

'What's Bubbling now?' asked Peet.

I sat on my upside-down catsup container for a moment. The sluggish,glorious feeling started swelling up in my body.

'Out Out Out!' I hollered.

'Finally, bubbles been squatting' forever!' said Poopie.

When I said we're going out,it means we're gonna release our gas onto some unfortunate chelloveck. Because them tubes kinda wrap around our wings, we had no choice, but to crawl out. The first living thing me met was a really drunk young

malchick. Normally, drunkards would be like quoting this and that, but we ain't giving him that chance. Before you could say, 'Turdyfly!', he was knocked out as cold as ice, and then we took his deng and the rest of his beer, to sell it to some fool scientist doing fruitless research,while draining all the money from the government.(Actually, now that I think about it, that's actually pretty smart.)

Because you probably do not want to hear any more explicit details about more people getting knocked out by gas, I'll make it short; we went around the streets of Floroc robbing people in the

same manner as that drunken malchick, releasing visibly green gas (much to the citizens' alarm),got into a fight with this veck named Alex (who also threatened to sue your Poopy Narrator for plagiarizing), gassed him too, and then go home.

Because I'm a nadsat, I have no home of my own. My home is my pee and em's home, which is at the compost site in the west end of Floroc. As usual, there was a glass of water and a plate of harmless popcorn. Both of them are asleep, as it was already three in the morning. Unbeknownst to your Poopy Narrator at that moment, that would be the last time he'll eat and sleep in that den before his doom.


	3. Part 2: The Fateful day

Part II: The Fateful Day

No, I did not rape two girls like Alex did, because I'm an insect-turd hybrid, and my chances of succeeding would be a lot lower than getting squashed by those same twosome.

Instead I actually went to school, though I slept through most of the day. Dreams about violently releasing, making all the citizens cry for mercy-yeah, that's the usual. When I woke up, I found I was actually lying on the top of my very own dogpile, as I actually made some bowel movements during my sleep. That prompted this one stupid chelloveck to say:

'Bubbles finally made some solid bubbles!'

The whole campus went into turmoil. People were laughing, their horrible rots open wide enough to chuck a turd into, if they weren't all Turdyflies. So these little brats kept screaming things like:

'He's giving birth!'

'No, it's the new Mt. Everest!'

'Let's start a Turdball fight!'

Then all of a sudden. a green mist fell over the school like Death itself. I actually nearly passed out, save for my experience with such stuff. What was left of the lifted mist was my three droogs. (And some half-dead kids)

'Bubbles, we need your help,' said a very serious-looking Peet.

After he explained the situation, I decide to ditch school to help them in this new hair-brained scheme they've came up with, without their great leader's permission.

So my droogs and I followed this awesome car. Inside, boxes that said '_Ground Pellets, Made with 30% TurdyFly'_ was seen. As we were crawling, Mud and Poopie explained the plan; gas the deliveryman and then ambush the receiver. Simple right? Turns out, they had more plans than that.

The plan was then put into action. The car gave a horrorshow of a chase. It was like drivin' at 95 mph before we cornered it. When it couldn't go further, the driver stepped out. A redhead, girlie-looking malchick with goggles and a cigarette in his mouth, then pulled out a gun.

'I'm not going to die like last time.'

Thus, the battle begun. A plethora of gunshots were fired, some even hitting an orange hoodie-cladded kid. Eventually, he ran out of shots, not even hitting one of us, due to our miniature size. The guy raised his hands up and said,

'You've probably got a lot of questions for me. Fine, you're not going to shoot-.'

Because we did not have guns, we gassed him. Before he passed out, I've might've heard something like 'Fudge my life.' Now the next part of the plan was to crawl into the package and go to the address on the box. For some strange reason, I thought I might've heard a kid yell, 'Oh my god, you killed Kenny!'

Anyways, we stopped by this rundown of a den. It needed a paint job and the grass definitely need mowing, as it looked over 6 feet tall.

'Well, it's not like you're dump's any better, boss,'quipped Poopie.

'Shut it and get out of my head, will ya?'

'Whatever you say, boss...'

Jumping back into scene, the door open, to reveal a long haired, blue-glazzy man lady in a baggy pants, and some fishnet shirt with a midriff shirt over it. Sheesh, no wonder the house isn't maintained. He definitely looks like an artist, too absorbed into his works to care about anything else. Precariously, he picked up the box; that was our moment to hoodoo him. We started jumping out of the box, screaming 'Death to the killer', which triggered the veck to say,

'Not you guys again! I'm telling you, they were already dead!'

'Already dead I shalt show!' I screamed.

War commenced indeed! Us against him and a gazillion clay birds. (Probably they're the other reason he neglects his lawn) Much to my surprise, they seem to explode upon his will.

'Begone or you shall have a taste of my art!'

You know how some people make bowel movements when they're scared? I produce carbon monoxide, hence my name. The smoke from the bird-bombs helped facilitate the spread of this toxic gas. It also aided in hiding my so-called droogs, enabling them to escape. As the cops came to detain me, I found a scrap of paper with their plans all along:

_Smelly Little Bum_

Bubbles needs to go to jail

Please don't tell our mums.-Poopie Jr.

And thus,my brothers, your poor Poopy Narrator get jail time for putting an artist veck into a coma. Verdict? Two years, because insects and animated turds don't live that long.


	4. Part 3: Jail Time

Part III: Jail Time

Yes, I went to a jail-like facility after the cops came. Only it was a laboratory research, because I'm not a 'person.' Though I've never been into a jail, methinks this is even worse. Who, in the right mind, would cram all different sorts of specimen into one cage? I would've gotten squashed by a morbidly obese panda, if I hadn't released my special carbon monoxide onto that beastly thing. Now it's on life support, for all I care.

My pee and em visited several months later. What news they've brought my had brought some delight, as undoing had been done on back-stabbing Poopie. Went on another release and some old veck incapacitated him, preventing him from removing that darn crotch-container. Like a plastic bag with too much air, poor ol' traitorous Poopie bursted in a 360 direction. Serves him right.

One night, I overheard a conversation between a science veck and the government. It went something around these lines:

'There's this young Turdyfly who'll make a good test subject; he appears to have gastronomic problems and has placed one of our test subjects into critical health.'

'Yes, that does sound like a good test subject for our new Ludovico's nasal technique. Let me see him tomorrow.'

Then, a third voice joined in.

'Sirs, what about Choice? What does he have left of him, other than his smelly body, if he cannot choose who he is?'

'Oh you silly prison guard. He still does have a choice- whether to accept this program or not. I'm pretty sure it'll all work out. After all, it'll be good for the public, and he would very much appreciate getting out of here early.'

Hearing that, I smiled to myself, for your Poopy Narrator really wants to get out of this dump.


	5. Part 4: Ludivico's Nasal Technique

Part IV: Ludovico's Nasal Technique

As Alex was foolish enough to accept being a test subject to get out early without thinking about the consequences, so was I. According to these vecks, Ludovico's Technique was going to be used on your Poopy Narrator, only that it was modified to affect a different part of me, which happens to be my sense of smell.

After being transferred to another laboratory, I was placed into a mostly sealed container, with a pipe of some sort connected to it. Only did they start did I realized what that tube was for, for coming out of it was visibly green gas, probably what I was familiar with.

'Seriously, that's all you grahzny vecks got?'

Only it was a lot worse than I thought; Sealed containers and visibly green gas do not mix, and before I knew it, there was me crying for mercy, only for one of 'em to say 'Five more minutes!'

After five terrible, suspiciously long minutes, they let me out for fresh air and boring soy milk.

'Are you forcing me to smell my own gas?!'

'Indeed we are,' said a veck.

'You see, we're curing you of the pleasure in making others miserable with your stinky bombs,' added another.

'Well, you terrible vecks are makin' me **physically** sick in the meantime!' I retorted.

'You're practically an animated piece of poo with wings, so it doesn't matter.'

So be it, my brothers. They made me sit in that horrible container, three times a day, for what seemed like weeks on end. By the time I was on my last day, I could tell the difference between sulfur and rotting eggs.

The day after that, I was presented to a crowd, in which two demonstrations were made to prove your Poopy Narrator 'cured.' The first one involved my old so-called droog, Mud, who probably volunteered for this, to fart on my face.

'Great Old Bog, have mercy on me!' I creecheed.

Oh my my brothers, Mud was known to have the second (to me) smelliest fart in all of Floroc. Now, he's probably releasin' it ten times worse than when he was my droog! To add even more to my misery, they had to do a second test on me. Thankfully, they did not allowed some terrible chelloveck to gas me. However, they showed me pictures of waste products of all sorts, something that I should be used too. Instead, I started feeling ill, which made me want to vomit out of my rot, which the thought of it made me even sicker, and that actually made me vomit.

'And that proves this technique works and should be used on all of our criminals,' said the sadistic science veck, 'Any questions?'

'Choice,' rumbled the voice of the prison guard, 'If he could only perform good or perform evil, he is a clockwork turd-meaning that he has the appearance of a lovely waste product bursting with color and juice but in fact only a clockwork toy wounded up by God or the Devil.'

'I wish you hadn't said that.'


	6. Part 5: Freedom

Part V: Freedom

After they cheered 'ol' hail' to this technique, and the government who was responsible for the funding, and I granted my freedom, the first thing I did, was to go home. Home to the loving dens of my pee and em. I managed to find enough courage to ring the bell, in order to meet three pairs of nervous glazzies peered through the opening.

'Oh no, stuttered my pee, 'you've escaped from prison.'

Then my em suggested, 'Should we call the police?'

Sensing what they're thinking, I had to explain about how I was released from prison early, because of volunteering for the (nasal) Ludovico's technique.

'You've should've warn us about your arrival,' said this new veck.

'And who may thou be?' I questioned.

'This is Poo,' pops sadly said, 'we've rented your room out to him.'

'Wait a minute! This is MY home!' and before either of them could stop your Poopy Narrator,he flung the wings of his chambers open, only to find everything gone, and replaced by the signatures of this new veck.

'This is TREACHERY!" I roared.

'There was a new policy in compensation,son,' said pee, 'The clay birds were arranged to be taken care of, while their owner was in a coma.

'Ooowwwwwww, Your things were sold to fund that,' sniffled my weeping mum.

'Impossible, impossible,' I muttered, 'what do clay birds even eat?!'

'Ya know what?'sneered Poo, 'you got yourself into jail, to return early, in order to bring your gassy bum back here. I'll always be the greatest son to them, and you'll always be that scummy burden.'

Those words hit me like a firing squad shooting a prisoner to death, save for the fact that all the shots hit my heart.

'Fine then,' said I pretentiously, 'I'll leave you so that y'all be happy, and don't come trying to find my dead corpse!'

With that, I opened the doors, going out to the cruel world our great Bog had placed me in.


	7. Part 6: A Cruel New World

Part V: Freedom

After they cheered 'ol' hail' to this technique, and the government who was responsible for the funding, and I granted my freedom, the first thing I did, was to go home. Home to the loving dens of my pee and em. I managed to find enough courage to ring the bell, in order to meet three pairs of nervous glazzies peered through the opening.

'Oh no, stuttered my pee, 'you've escaped from prison.'

Then my em suggested, 'Should we call the police?'

Sensing what they're thinking, I had to explain about how I was released from prison early, because of volunteering for the (nasal) Ludovico's technique.

'You've should've warn us about your arrival,' said this new veck.

'And who may thou be?' I questioned.

'This is Poo,' pops sadly said, 'we've rented your room out to him.'

'Wait a minute! This is MY home!' and before either of them could stop your Poopy Narrator,he flung the wings of his chambers open, only to find everything gone, and replaced by the signatures of this new veck.

'This is TREACHERY!" I roared.

'There was a new policy in compensation,son,' said pee, 'The clay birds were arranged to be taken care of, while their owner was in a coma.

'Ooowwwwwww, Your things were sold to fund that,' sniffled my weeping mum.

'Impossible, impossible,' I muttered, 'what do clay birds even eat?!'

'Ya know what?'sneered Poo, 'you got yourself into jail, to return early, in order to bring your gassy bum back here. I'll always be the greatest son to them, and you'll always be that scummy burden.'

Those words hit me like a firing squad shooting a prisoner to death, save for the fact that all the shots hit my heart.

'Fine then,' said I pretentiously, 'I'll leave you so that y'all be happy, and don't come trying to find my dead corpse!'

With that, I opened the doors, going out to the cruel world our great Bog had placed me in.


	8. Part 7: How to Make a TurdyFly Flip

Part VII: How to Make a Turdyfly Flip

I needed someone in times of darkness. Someone who would accept a brick-hard, smelly little turd with wings. So I went to a little house, excluded from the others in a neighborhood, down a path yellow not with gold, but yellow with sand. You Poopy Narrator, scratching, as if he was a pitiful stray dog; never in a million years would I've thought of myself in this condition. Who was but to open the door? No other than a chelloveck, who happened to be the Creator, that all of Floroc believed in.

'Oh my,' said this person, 'You're not the TurdyFly I've created.

'The police,' I gasped, 'the terrible gassy police.'

'Right, though roasting yourself was actually your own doing.' Yet, the Creator was kind enough to water me, and give unbuttered popcorn, causing me to weep CO2 in thanks.

'What can I ever do to repay you?'

'Hey hey, don't kill my oxygen in here; save it for the plants!'

So I started weeping near the plants.

'I was just joking.'

Being inside and safe from the terrible world was nice at first, but several days later, life seemed boring, and I felt like a worthless bum. So I dared to ask,

'If it's not much of a trouble to ask you, but what can I, a Turdyfly who cannot cause trouble in disgusting ways, contribute to life?'

The Creator looked up from writing the next plot, and said,

'Well, Bubbles, you can contribute plenty. For one thing, you can get accidently flushed down a toilet and scare a sewage worker silly. Or get your body burnt and dropped on someone's head again. Oh, and then when you die from the most ridiculous causes, your body can go into '_Ground Pellets, Made With 30% Turdyfly.'_ You see, for every organism, there is even the tiniest meaning to their life, to life itself.'

'But there is no meaning to life, I creeched, 'Great Bog, I'm depressed!'

So as to unable to bear this terrible world great old Bog left me in, your Poopy Narrator went over the roof and jumped.


	9. Part 8: In the Hands of Homo Sapiens

Part VIII: In the Hands of the Homo Sapiens

Unfortunately, the great Bog has cursed me with involuntary

moters on my wings. When I jumped it automatically suspended me in midair. So I did what suicidal birds do; fly at high speeds until one goes splat on something. Yes indeed, I did go splat on some sort of statue, only did I survive, for you Poopy Narrator is still alive, but not so well.

The next thing I know, I was in a clean room, with a pink haired nurse looking over me. She was reading a newspaper that said, '**Turdyfly Makes First Stain On New Replica Clay Bird**.' The pictures showed my mangled body, splattered on the giant clay bird, and the artist veck from Chapter 2's distressed face. I saw other articles too, like '**Government Scheme Nearly Kills Sewage Product**(me)'before the devotchka took notice of my consciousness.

'Oh, you're awake,' she said.

'Since when do they allow teenage nurses?' I asked.

'Well, _hello,'_ she retorted, 'a 'nadsat' created all of this chaos, so anything is possible.'

'Think anything is possible?' asked the Turdyfly on the hospital bed, 'How about me being unable to gas this whole wreck?'

'Oh, your parents are here!' Man, sometimes, I think that humans are kinda bipolar. Any way, My pee and em did come. Both happened to have cried their eyes out, with em still at it.

'Owwwwwwww,' cried mum. _Great grahzny God._

'Son,' said my papa, 'We heard you flew 50 mph into a statue, and it was confirmed intentional.'

'Owwww,' wailed em, 'It was wrong of us to choose a stranger over you, owwww.'

'Speaking of strangers how was this glorious Poo, I pray?' I replied.

'Was very awkward,' explained Pee, 'You see, a just-became cop hoodooed him and made him fluctuate the very same green gas he considers dirty.'

'And where may he be now, I pray?'

'Gone back home by shame owwwwwww,' said the wallflower of an em.

'Aw, I'm sick of this shoshy slop!' I creeched.

'That's not the way to talk, son,' said my pee sternly, 'Anyway, our home is your home, you can come back when you're better.'

'I consider it.'

Sometime later, the government, followed by those science vecks, and a buncha reporters came.

'Here, here,' he said, ' Everyone presumes we're responsible for your actions, don't they?'

'Just so you know, we're your friends, said a science veck, 'and we meant to help the people of a society, not to make them suicidal.'

'You're not just a Turdyfly in our eyes, but a very special person,' said another.

'Just get to the point already!'

'You see,' said the government, 'We're offering you to a better life. We'll give you a government job, and we've even fixed your noggin, so that you can fart again!'

'Accept this as a friendship gift, from us to you.'

The gift was no more or less of a golden crotch protector. These chellovecks then left to let me enjoy it. A veck gave me a paper to sign before he left. I did not care what I signed for I was cured.


	10. Part 9: Nothing is Carved in Turd

Part IX: Nothing is Carved in Turd

Going through this experience did not prevent me from doing the same things again. I'm now with my new droogs, PigPen, Sick and Farty at the Compost Bar, having our serving of popcorn-plus.

'So what is it now, eh?' asked Sick.

'If you're obliged, you may go.'

They went, and I could hear creeching, followed by ripping noises, and a 'Oh my god, you killed Kenny!' As I looked at my barely touched popcorn,it made me wonder why do I go around, knocking out unfortunate chellovecks, other than for the sake of their deng, and what good is in polluting the very environment I live in? Just then, a young Turdycouple came in, ordering some harmless beer. One of them turned around, and it was no other than Peet.

'Long time no see there, buddy,' I said.

'Yes, it has been a long time, he replied, 'long enough for all the cruddiest things to happen.

'And how art thou?' I asked.

'It sounds a lot like he's trying to talk like that Alex guy,' said the devochka with him.

'This lady here,' said Peet, 'Is my wife.'

'No, impossible, impossible; thou art too young.'

'You've seem to forget how long Turdyflies live,' said he, 'I'm three years old. Old enough to be hitched.'

'I'm two and a half,' I said.

'That's quite young, despite everything happening to you,' Peet said, 'You should come and visit Poopilina and I sometime.'

After they finished their beers, I sat alone on the stools of the Compost Bar. Two and a half is definitely not young at all; nor is it old. I may not be young, but then, your Poopy Narrator still have a lot to live for. And I'm sure as hellfire, that I'll do as much as any eighty-year old human. Then when I die, there will be kids who'll succeed me. Their farts would be even worse than your Poopy Narrator, and I can't or would ever will want to stop them. Oh my brothers and sisters this is the cruddy story of little Bubbles. Where it end, will be where he begins again, for the leaves turn, the animals creech, and somewhere in the grahzny world, someone lets out a fart. Farewell to you all, thank you for letting me waste your time on my life, for the real intellectual work is in the real Clockwork Orange. Remember, the times I've been through and what it means to plagiarize a perfectly good teen classic.

I'LL SUE YOU!-Fin


End file.
